


Black is the Colour

by TheJoysOfAMultishipper (Amemah)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, song-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 19:48:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5018014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amemah/pseuds/TheJoysOfAMultishipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Here, taste this,” Darcy says, holding up a fork filled to the brim with some weird salad. He looks dubiously at it, getting some childish glee from the way she rolls her eyes at him. “Taste!” She urges, and he does, simply because she said so.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>A non-angsty story of how Darcy and Bucky fall in love, told from the perspective of Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black is the Colour

**Author's Note:**

> Heia!
> 
> Another Bucky/Darcy story from me! This is a prompt fill from @devidlg at tumblr. She asked for a Darcy/Loke based on the song "Black is the Colour". Obviously, I changed the pairing, but... yeah. That's it.
> 
> I hope you like it!   
> Please let me know what you think in the comments, I love reading them!! 
> 
> Hugs <3
> 
> \---
> 
> [](http://thejoysofamultishipper.tumblr.com/%C2%AB>My%20Tumblr!%20Come%20say%20hi!</a>)

_Black is the colour of my true love's hair._

_Her lips are like some roses fair._

_She has the sweetest face and the gentlest touch._

_I love the ground whereon she stands._

 

Natasha is the only person he can remember most days, at least the only person he can remember clearly. She’s a flash of red and black in his nightmares, of pink and purple in his dreams. He remembers touching her, laughing with her if they could manage it, killing with her. His memories of her weren’t always pleasant, but they _were_ tangible. He could pinpoint her in a crowd of a million, could separate her scent from everyone else within _seconds_. But still…

“I’m not that person you cared for, Natalia.”  
She looks at him, and he can tell she feels the same. “I know.” She smiled in a way she never did when she was with him. She looked scheming, but not in a bad way. “I have Clint now.”

“I’m glad.” He says, and he means it. It feels good, to have a friendship and to be happy on the behalf of someone else. It feels like regaining a part of himself that he was missing so badly.

Steve is different. He’s still _Steve_ , at the core if it. He’s also red in his nightmares, but a different red. It’s more glaring, taunting, like if he looked at it long enough he’d turn blind. In his dreams, Steve’s blue. Sometimes a soft baby blue, sometimes the color of the sky on the warm days they could go outside without Bucky worrying so much _he’d_ be the sick one.

But Steve’s changed over the years, and it takes him a few weeks to realize that he himself doesn’t see it.

“You don’t have to be who you were before the war, y’know.” He says one night. Steve pauses in his sketching, his forehead burrowed.  
“What do you mean?”

“You’re different,” He shrugs. “Nothing wrong with it. Don’t pretend to be this perfect little golden boy who doesn’t know exactly what bullshit humans are capable of.”  
“But that’s what everyone want. _Who_ everyone wants.”

Steve looks a little lost. It’s not the first time.

“You jumped from one war to the other, Steve. Not counting the disbanding of SHIELD, how long has it been since you did something for yourself? How long has it been since you weren’t following orders? Or a _variation_ of those orders?”

Steve doesn’t seem to have an answer.  
“Go back to your drawing, punk.” He says, “You’ll figure it out.”

_She’s_ a mixture of them both in his dreams. In the beginning, she’s red too, like her lips. It’s a softer red, like a warm red that invites you in. It isn’t crimson like Natalia’s, or glaring like Steve’s. It’s matte. Forgiving. He doesn’t see blood when he looks at it; it’s more like flowers. Roses. A blanket that’s been passed down one generation too many. A worn flannel shirt. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t see sickness and wars and horrors when he sees the color; he sees hope. And redemption. He thinks he might be exaggerating a little, but he doesn’t care. Sometimes it’s the only comfort he has.

She’s blue, sometimes, like the ocean. A never-ending pool of things he’d never know, but so badly wants to. In his dreams, she leads him out to the ocean. She lays with him in the warm sun, soft skin and smiling lips and eyes that promise everything he’s ever dared to hope for. When he wakes up, he hopes that the ocean is a metaphor for how long they’ll be together; that it goes on forever.

“Do you ever think about how different the world would have looked if Queen Katarina had managed to conceive a son? Or if Henry hadn’t fallen for Anne Boleyn?” She asks one night. They’re in the common room, he’s keeping her company while she studies for her final exams.

“No.” He answers, “Not really.”  
“You should. It’s so weird to think about how much that man shaped the world as we know it, all in his quest to get an heir to his throne.”

It’s refreshing, he thinks, to talk to someone who is incapable of having ulterior motives. It’s freeing to talk to someone about politics and history and religion, without waiting for the other shoe to drop; for some to tell him just _how_ the policies of Pope Julius II would relate to his certain death, should the mission fail.

 

“He was a Tudor king, right?”  
Darcy hums in agreement, eyes lighting up. She loves the renaissance. “He was the last Tudor King, actually. His father took the crown by force from Richard the third, so Henry knew his claim to the throne was weak. On top of that, he was married to his late brother’s wife, and he could never be sure if Katarina of Aragon actually consummated her marriage with him.” Darcy sighed, “It didn’t exactly help his paranoia.”

“You’re so smart. Do you know that?” He said, watching in delight as Darcy blushed. She was outspoken and outgoing and never afraid to make her mind known, but she was still incredibly shy in some aspects. While some parts of him – parts he didn’t like, parts he wanted _nothing_ to do with – saw it as a weakness, most of him saw it as absolutely adorable.

“Shut up,” She laughed. “Do you want to hear about Cesare Borgia and how he united the Romagna, only for everything to go tits up?”

“Please,” He grinned. “Tell me everything.”  
“Well, it began with a Papal Bull, proclaiming him to be legitimate son of Pope Alexander the sixth. Technically he was the fifth, but that’s a whole other story.”

_I love my love and well she knows._

_I love the ground whereon she goes._

_And how I wish the day would come_

_When she and I can be as one._

 

It hits him like a freight train. They’re in the kitchen again; she’s baking the salmon Tony had imported from Norway, he’s showing off his skills with a knife. If feels good to be doing it on vegetables instead of cadavers, but he has a feeling that mentioning that will put a damped on the evening.

“Here, taste this,” Darcy says, holding up a fork filled to the brim with some weird salad. He looks dubiously at it, getting some childish glee from the way she rolls her eyes at him. “Taste!” She urges, and he does, simply because she said so.

He does. Simply because _she said so_.

He’s in bed, the clock on his phone showing the time 03:48, and he knows he should be asleep. He can hear Steve’s soft snoring the wall, the even beating of his heart. He’d told him that if he ever needed to talk, he’d be there – day or night, good memories or bad. He’d nearly scoffed at Steve’s earnest face when he’d said that, because he didn’t _have_ any good memories.

He did now. He could remember his first meeting with Darcy,

(Hey, you!”  
“Me?”  
“Yes, you! Is there any way I can convince you to use your tall body to grab a packet of flour for me?”  
“What, now?”  
“Yes, _now_! I promised Erik I’d make him waffles, and Tony had the brilliant idea of placing the flour on the top shelves. I don’t understand why; _everyone_ knows that the flour goes in the drawers underneath the kitchen counter.”  
“ _Obviously_.”  
“Yes. Obviously.”)

And he could remember the look on Steve’s face every time he remembered something good,

(“Remember you ma’s blueberry pie?”  
“The one with the maple syrup topping?”  
“One and only, punk.”)

He could remember Natalia coming to him to decompress after a mission, going through the familiar motions of cleaning and checking weapons,

(“This is Clint. He’s my boyfriend. This is Sam. He’s also my boyfriend. Don’t make it weird.”)

and plenty of others.

He remembered Pepper and Jane, and helping them get back to their boyfriends after a night out. It felt nice, to help two ladies back to the safety of their own homes. Watching them discuss the merits of extraterrestrial travel and just buying up all the shares in Stark Industries was fun, too.

He remembered Tony, and his delighted face when he got to tinker with the arm. That felt nice as well; how the arm could be more than a weapon, almost a _toy_. Tony’s way of reading him without commenting on it, his way of turning _the_ arm into _his_ arm… He could remember that.

He remembered Bruce, and how he matched his self-deprecating humor second to _none_ , he remembered Thor, and how he always seemed to know how to help without _ever_ asking for anything in return.

He had so many good memories of so many good people, but _she_ stood out. She always did, in a way no one else could do.

“I’m in love with Darcy Lewis.” He whispered to himself.  
“What was that, Sergeant Barnes?” Jarvis asked quietly, like he didn’t want to disturb. He was so British in so many ways. He could remember Peggy too.

“I’m in love with Darcy, Jarvis.”  
“Ah. Quite.” Jarvis said. “Good luck in your endeavors, Sergeant.”

“I don’t even know what those are yet,.”  
“For what it’s worth Sergeant,” Jarvis offered, “Whatever you decide on, I believe those endeavors will be rather successful. “

“Thanks, Jarvis.”  
“Of course. Would you like me to play a movie to help you sleep?”  
“No thanks,” He answered, “I like the silence.”

“Very well.”

 

_Black is the colour of my true love's hair._

_Her lips are like some roses fair._

_She has the sweetest face and the gentlest touch._

_I love the ground whereon she stands._

_I love the ground whereon she stands._

 

“What do you want me to call you?” Darcy asks quietly. They’ve migrated form the common room to his apartment, and they’re laying in a pile on the expensive couch Pepper had bought him as a gift. He’d nearly said no when she’d had it brought over, because he’d already gotten so much and it was almost _too_ much. Tony had made some vaguely threatening gestures behind her back though – threats they both knew he could never, but more importantly _would_ never follow up on –, so here they are.

“I’m sorry?” He turns away from the episode of ‘Doc Martin’ to look at Darcy. Martin and Louisa were at it again, and frankly, he was getting impatient.

“Your name. I don’t know what to call you.” Darcy explains, looking like she really doesn’t want to be talking about this. She was terrified of offending him, he realized. Or triggering him, setting him back in his progress.

“What have you been calling me?”  
“’Hey, you!’” Darcy shrugs, an impressive feat from where she’s lying. “’Lovebug’. ‘Soggy Cereal’, if you were pissing me off,”

He huffs a laugh, “Dickhead."  
“Whatever,” Darcy sat up. “What do I call you? Do you have a preference?”

“I…” He thought about it as his voice trailed off into nothing. And realized that he had no idea. “I don’t know.” He admitted.

Darcy smiled gently at him, and he was almost afraid to look at her, to see if she had finally began to pity him. She hadn’t – of course she hadn’t –, there was nothing but compassion and understanding showing on her face. Someday, he thought, she’d be too kind for her own good.

Her tiny hand grasped his, soft fingers moving in circles around the calloused palm of his hand. “Okay,” She said. “Let me know if you figure it out. Or if you need help.”  
“Yeah,” He said, “Promise.”

 

_Black is the colour of my true love's hair._

_Her lips are like a rose so fair._

_She has the sweetest face and the gentlest hands._

_I love the ground whereon she stands._

_I love the ground whereon she stands._

 

They share their first kiss in the kitchen. Her lips are soft against his, opening up and letting him in like it is the easiest thing in the world. Her hands lay gently on his chest, lightly tickling the base of his neck. When she pulls away from him, she’s smiling in that sweet and shy way of hers. The smile he knows only a few people in this world has seen.

“You know I love you, right?” He says, and he’s surprised to say he’s breathless.  
“You know I love you too, right?” She answers, and that’s that.

 

_I love the ground whereon she stands._

 

He was right; the ocean was a metaphor. They last for as long as it’s possible.

The salad tasted delicious.

She called him James.

_I love the ground whereon she stands._


End file.
